Streamlining towards the apex of infinity
by OakeX
Summary: For humans are but bags of lightning and chemical hormones, and the heart but scraps of storm cloud moulded into impulse. The fairy soars, and tastes stardust. Oneshot.


**Oh my Jesus I have not been very active recently.**

 **When did I post my last story...**

 **February 15th, oh Lord that was 3 months ago. And there are so many stories I've yet to review too.**

 **Soon, I promise. I just have exams coming up, but once those are done, I'm diving right back into ff.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sisters Grimm.**

* * *

When he sees her with him, he is gripped by some terrible rage.

An all-consuming anger, very slowly boiling over, which cuts through any emotion he might have been feeling beforehand, and brings with it the Heat.

The _Heat_ — Promethean—Ancient —which has existed since sin crouched at the door of Cain's heart and delivered him into the hands of murderous fury. He sees her with him, and her laugh which used to make him smile now makes him wince also, and her lips which used to touch his now graze the cheek of someone else's.

He smoulders. The Devil beckons fire into him. He burns. He longs for escape, and so out bursts his wings and up up up away he tears off into the air.

...

The wind howls. He flies at such speeds that he can barely breathe; _Mach 5,_ she once called him, _a fighter jet_ , she once called him.

Up here, the air is thin anyway. All he can do is take shallow gasps, and skim the oxygen off of them as best as he can.

Maybe he should go lower. By the ragged itching in his chest that is oxygen starvation, maybe he should go lower.

But he won't. His lungs ache, yet pain paralyses him, and no by God he won't.

He saw her, and all the breath was whumped out of his chest. It felt like a hammer had thrown itself into him, and a horrible tingling had spread from the point of impact, pins and needles and all manners of sharp wooden noses, that grew longer with every lie he told himself: _you're fine; it's ok; you're doing fine_.

After all, what is left in the wake of the Heat? Heatwaves? Smoke? Or ash, cool ash, warm to the touch but soon it will be like ice, and oh yes it will weld itself to the ground of his soul and infect him.

Carbon Dioxide burns its poison through him.

He breathes.

And as he does blood lightnings downwards through his chest, dropping from highs down to lows; a straight drop.

Every time he inhales it intensifies, this rushing plummeting chill that starts from his sternum and cleaves its way down to his navel, as if he's freefalling, in perpetual motion, and no number of wingbeats will bring him back up again.

 _Once, he could have girdled the earth._

Before the action of the Heat, before it all happened.

Before...

Wait, before? Before when?

When's before? When's before when?

When...

...

When oh—

When—!

I KNOW WHEN!

When he didn't ache for sleep because then he wouldn't have to face the world. When his snarls didn't echo around the chambers of his mind, resonating, loud, tingling the blood in his ears, like small bolts, electron clouds.

In his haste of passion his fingers twitch, his wingbeats become erratic, and he spins drill-like in the air.

He wants to yell, to strike, to lash out at the girl who had left him. To _hurt_ her, in the way that she had hurt him, but more, more so that she'd scream with him, and let their voices intertwine like their bodies had so long ago. His lips form syllables but no sound, and a cathartic release of pain and fury erupts forth from him.

Because when could he have girdled the earth.

Before pain and fury and TOo mucH EmOtiOn charged (they go, they go, lOOK HoW THeY gO) into the fray of his existence.

Dirty tactics. Mud-grapple.

They entered, and locked horns, and he fought furiously against the feelings he shouldn't be feeling. All this love, and unrequited heart, weakness, and joy at her face that mingles with the fury he feels, oh my lord but compassion is not for kings, and porcelain and glass sprays in his face as his anger consumes him and he screams.

When.

WHEN!

When when when —that's _when_ — when he was happy, and laughed, and he felt _human_ , **normal** , and his joy wasn't cut short, sliced in half, or sundered to pieces by the realisation that she was gone (by the red flag that waved in front of his st(r)eaming eyes)—

 _once, he was swifter than arrows_.

 _twice, he slew a dragon. he outraced monsters_.

 _So fast..._

And he tries, really, why see him now. With his arms tucked in and back ramrod, he spins thrice on his heels and transforms into a pure corkscrew of ascension.

 _Reverse your falling_.

He streamlines towards the stars, smooth as silver— a spin here— and fluid as liquid thunder —a whirl there —and soon he goes from corkscrew to reverse meteorite, and a flurry of church-window wings.

 _breathe . . ._

Spin _up_ up _spin_ and twirl and one two three all things that go up must come down _shit_.

Try as he might, if Murphy's Law could apply to his love life, then the laws of gravity can apply to his transcendence, and when his wings tire (when he can't breathe), then he will plummet towards the ground at 9.81, approaching terminal velocity; for what is he but reversed meteorite reversed again, what is he but a victim of forces he cannot hope to control, and he will drop, yes he will, here it comes, oh he will drop, like a feather, on the moon —or a hammer— and shatter, splinter, break(again!) his breast on rocks below.

Down down down . . .

see him fall.

* * *

There is something addictive in the unloading of pent-up emotion. Like a hook almost, that latches onto your navel, formed of the euphoric feeling that comes when you text someone 'I feel like shit', and they text back 'what's up?'.

I would know. I speak from experience. When the mask falls, then the arms rest, and as they rest they become lethargic. They become sleepy, and droop, and the mind grows stupid with rest. When you unload, you lose the power to reload.

But _by God_ you don't care because someone's willing to listen, and to say all the right things at the right times.

You think you love this person then.

In that moment, of course.

You start to get to know this person. You start telling them more. You kiss them. You put them on a pedestal, _The Angel Who Listens_ , and they laugh and tell you they're there for you.

Their voice sounds like the Voice of God. When they're sad, their tears break your heart. When they're angry, they hiss like an asp. When they're scared, it send prickes of adrenaline through you.

When they laugh, they kiss you, and that makes you smile.

When they lie with you, you tremble. And one night, you lie in them. _The first time..._ You pull them closer. _Mmm..._ You press burning kisses to their skin, and rest your forehead on theirs. _I love you_ , you whisper, as you wrap yourself around them. _I love you too_ , they whisper back, as their fingers ghost across your leg.

When they leave, your bones burst with ice. Calcium cracks, and marrow seeps out, infusing into your pain to form frisson, that wounds you — deep - deep _er_.

* * *

Straining his eyes against the sun, he rises.

 _Ah, his wings hurt_.

But he grits the pain out, and pushes on, because he will, _will_ , escape the demons that wait for him on the ground.

 _So close. . ._

He climbs ever higher, and stretches farther towards the apex of infinity.

 _But tonight, the stars will walk backwards. The seas will catch fire, and earth will replace sky as heaven touches hell_.

The globe spins on its axis; he becomes meteorite again.

...

He sits on a rock, and pain leaks from his eyes.

The sun sets.

He needs to go now.

As always.

Back home.

Back to Her.

* * *

 **I asked a friend to proofread this and we just ended up making snarky comments the entire time and getting nothing done. Maybe this lack of focus is why I have four stories fermenting in Drive and a multichap which I will probably never finish.**


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